


ketchup packets are a hell of a gift

by FancifulRivers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Chara And Asriel Have Their Bodies Back, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Post-Undertale Soulless Pacifist Route, Referenced No Mercy run, Why? It's Christmas that's why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 12:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: In which Chara and Sans share their mutual distaste of the holidays.





	ketchup packets are a hell of a gift

_Poke._

You groan and flop over, burrowing deeper into warm blankets. Your movement only seems to invigorate your attacker, as a new, tentative flurry of pokes descends onto your shoulder and side.  _Poke. Poke. Pokepokepoke._

" _What?_ " You snap, not bothering to open your eyes. You don't want to see their wounded expression anyway. You know it's got to be Frisk. Frisk is the only one brave enough to touch you in the mornings, before you've woken up (and had about a gallon of coffee, despite what Mom thinks about caffeine and your growth- you're a reinvigorated dead kid, who the hell cares about your height). Frisk is one of those disgusting creatures known as a  _morning person_ and you are anything but.

"Chara," Frisk stage whispers. "Chara, guess what?"

"Mom changed her mind and is getting me a knife set for Christmas?" You guess brightly. Opening your eyes a slit, you can see Frisk roll theirs.

"You know that's never happening, right?" Frisk says. "No, it's  _snowing_." Their face is bright and happy and pink-cheeked. You groan and slam your head back into your pillow.

Of  _course_ it's snowing on Christmas Eve.

"Get up," Frisk orders, bouncing on the end of your bed. You glare at them. "Mom made pancakes," they wheedle. "With chocolate chips in them."

"Fine," you grumble. "But only for the pancakes."

Frisk grins.

* * *

 

You hate the holidays, you think as you hobble downstairs, holding tight to the bannister. Frisk waits at the bottom and Asriel steps slowly behind you, ready to catch you if you fall. You hate this set-up, too, but you can't deny it's come in handy. Azzy's caught you more than once, and Frisk had only a mild black eye from your cane careening down the rest of the steps and slamming into their face.

Azzy carries your cane for you when you go down stairs now, too.

You're not sure how he feels about the holidays. He's quiet about that kind of stuff. Most of the monsters are. You think it's because they don't really get most of them. Although every monster  _you_ know likes Halloween, at least. That's your favorite. Who wouldn't want to dress up as something scary and get chocolate out of it? Your mom even let you have a plastic knife last year.

But Christmas is different. Christmas is about peace and good tidings and family and joy. Christmas is about gift giving and thanks and coming home.

Fuck that.

Frisk loves the holidays. You don't think they used to (you've pulled yourself out of more than one of their memories when you shared a body, sweaty and red-faced and shaking) but they do now. They like helping Mom and Dad put up the Christmas tree (one in Mom's house, one in Dad's, and you pretend it means you get two for one, not that they're still separated and it's all your fault, isn't it, Chara?) Frisk likes hanging up garlands of tinsel everywhere and putting mistletoe up in the doorway (although you put your foot down on it ever applying to you, unless Frisk wants you to hide all their sweaters again). They like Christmas carols and making eggnog and cinnamon butterscotch pie and giving presents.

They even like  _shopping_ and you don't understand that at all. If it was up to you, you'd just buy everything online. There, done, no big deal. But Frisk likes to see things in person, to be able to hold things and test their texture, to shake things and see if they work. Frisk  _likes_ trudging through crowded malls to find the perfect gift (to wrap at home later, of course).

You hate shopping. You never had a good Christmas before you fell down into the underground. Before the Dreemurrs. Your family usually kicked you out of the house and told you to sleep in the shed or the neighbors' tree house. Shivering and wrapped up in a car blanket, that's how you used to ring in Christmas or the New Year. Sometimes you woke up in the middle of the night because of the flashing blue and red lights in the front yard and your mother's slurred shouts while the neighbors stared through festive curlicues of red and green light bulbs. Merry fucking Christmas and a happy New Year to you, too. You were the problem kid, the burden, something to be pawned off on the next available victim.

It was weird telling Mom and Dad about up above. About celebrations and holidays, like birthdays and Christmas and Halloween. It was weird feeling like someone gave a shit about you. How are you supposed to feel about that?

* * *

"How are you feeling, Chara?" Mom asks you as you limp into the kitchen.

"Well,  _someone_ woke me up early, so," you say, eyeing Frisk pointedly as you make your way to the table.

"Hey," Frisk protests. "Mom told me-"

"I feel okay," you interrupt. "Just in pain. The weather's been so-" You nod toward the window, where you can see lazy spirals of snowflakes. Mom turns and looks, too.

"Oh, yes, that wouldn't help, would it, child," she says, coming over and resting her paw gently against your forehead. It's wonderfully soft. "At least you don't seem to be coming down with fever...I'll mix something up for your pain, all right?"

"Thank you," you say. Mom's medicines aren't perfect, but they're worlds better than shitty ibuprofen or tylenol. That stuff never seems to even  _touch_ your pain, and you're sick of people acting like it will. 

"So what are the plans today?" Mom asks, looking round the table. You shrug, taking another hefty bite of pancake so you don't have to give your real answer, which is more along the lines of  _let me sleep all day and hopefully through tomorrow, too. And/or go around setting people's Christmas trees on fire. Fire is fun._

"I need to finish wrapping stuff," Frisk admits. You can tell they're blushing.

"Me, too," Asriel says, looking down at his plate. "I erm-"

"Didn't you use like half a roll of gift wrap on one present?" You ask, barely stifling your snorts of laughter. Azzy's face reddens.

"...Maybe," he admits in a tiny voice. You have to press one hand against your mouth to avoid actually laughing and making it worse.

"Chara," Mom says softly. You cough.

"Sorry," you say.

"I need to finish my holiday baking," Mom says. "But I still have an errand- would one of you like to...?" She trails off hopefully.

"I will," you blurt out, eager to rectify previous wrongs.

Why did you do that?

* * *

Of course it involves Sans.

The one monster you have a... _prickly_ relationship with (not that you can ever tell Mom  _why_ ) and Mom's little errand involves  _him_. Isn't it bad enough he's invited over for the festivities, along with his too-loud brother? Now you've got to see him for some one-on-one time, too?

"It's punishment for spiking the eggnog last night, isn't it," you grumble to yourself as you stump down the sidewalk, cane clutched in one mittened hand. It's bitterly cold outside, and you can see your breath puffing in front of you. Your mom's peace offering (cradled in a drawstring backpack) thumps between your shoulders with every step. You personally don't think even the skeleton is going to appreciate a fruit cake, of all things, but Mom seems to think it's a human tradition that she needs to embrace, so who are you to tell her no? Hell, maybe  _her_ fruit cake is even good.

It doesn't take long to reach the house that Sans shares with his brother. Nor is it hard to tell that Papyrus lives there, at least- there is already a snowman sloppily erected in the front yard, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses. The frames are bright pink and feature a palm tree sticking out to the side. It is very hard for you not to laugh. The only reason you don't is because you know it'd turn into a painful cough in this weather, especially with snow still eddying around you.

* * *

 

"hey," Sans says when he opens the door. You glare at him and he gets the hint, shuffling aside so you can hobble into the blissfully warm house. It's probably too warm (you don't think either skeleton knows what temperature the thermostat should be set to), but your joints thank you as you creakily sit down in Sans's favorite recliner.

"Mom brought you a fruit cake," you tell him, rummaging through your rucksack and pulling out the tinfoil-wrapped offering. "Uh, sorry in advance."

"why?" Sans asks, but you just snicker.

"Mom said to ask you if it's okay to come over earlier tomorrow," you say, idly swinging your legs against the recliner. "If you wanna, I mean."

"sure," Sans says. "i'll tell paps when he comes home. he's giving alphys and undyne their pre-christmas present."

"Uh..." You look at him in confusion. "What the fuck's a pre-Christmas present?"

"language," he says, on auto pilot. "and he's decided his friends get a pre-christmas present and a christmas present. tori and y'all will probably get a visit tonight."

"He really likes the holidays, doesn't he?" You say. You don't know why you're sitting here, making chit chat with the skeleton. It's not like you  _like_ him.

Oh right, his house is warm, and it's cold as your birth mother's affection skills toward you outside.

"he loves 'em," Sans says, and you can tell he's lit up at the thought of his brother's happiness. If there's anything you know about Sans by now, it's that he has his brother in the front of his mind, always. "he likes the lights and the christmas tree and all that. he tried making christmas spaghetti last night with some tinsel." He laughs, and you bite your bottom lip to avoid joining him.

 "What about you?" You persist. Sans shrugs. You think you see a flicker of discomfort on his face.

"it's all right," he says, slouching against the door frame. His bedroom slippers look extra fluffy today, and you wonder if he got a new pair.

"I hate it," you confide, not sure why. Maybe it's because he's the first person who hasn't thrown themselves wholeheartedly into the holiday season.

"yeah?" Sans asks. "why not?"

"I don't know," you say to your lap. "Just- my home life. Before Mom, I mean," you clarify, peeking up through your lashes. You don't want him to get the wrong idea, after all.  _Mom_ is great. Your birth parents on the other hand...

Sometimes you wish you were the demon they always called you. Your knife begged for oozing red, not wisps of dust.

You clench your fists, trembling. You don't want to remember  _that_ of all things. Not when you're in the same room as one of the few people who actually  _remembers_ that even happened. Frisk knows. Azzy knows. It's different with them. Azzy did some pretty messed up things, too, when he was a flower. And you shared a body with Frisk, you know what dirty little secrets hide in that angelic mop of brown curls.

But Sans?

All he knows about that time is that you're a dirty brother killer.

"chara?" He sounds concerned. And he's close, he's  _too fucking close,_ and you cringe back into the recliner before you can stop yourself, because it's better than launching yourself at him. Better than bruising your hands against solid bone.

Better than finding the next best thing to your knife and repeating history.

"Sorry," you mumble. Your cheeks feel wet and it startles you to realise you're crying. "Sorry, I- Sorry." It's inadequate, but you don't know what else to say.

"sorry for prying," he says. You shrug.

"It's not that," you say. "It's- anyway. My family before was kind of shit, so all my holiday memories are pretty shit, too. It's- I don't know, it doesn't feel right anymore, celebrating them. Like they're not for me or something. I dunno, it's stupid."

"no, i get it," Sans says. Weirdly, you believe him. "hey uh, chara..." He shuffles nervously.

"Yeah?" You ask, slightly wary. He rummages in his pocket and hands you a shittily-wrapped present. The wrapping paper is blue with grinning snowmen and fractal snowflakes.

"i was gonna give it to you tomorrow," he explains. "it's uh- not your only present." 

"Okay..." You draw out the word as you fumble with the wrapping. There is a  _lot_ of tape.

When you're done and the contents spill out into your lap, you can't help but laugh.

It's a handful of ketchup packets.

"You asshole," you say, but you're laughing. You don't know why, but you feel a bit better.

Well enough to head back home, anyway.

"Thanks," you mumble, stuffing the ketchup packets into your pocket. You mean it for more than the 'present.'

"no prob," Sans says. 

Your mouth involuntarily twitches into a smile and you venture back into the snow.

You even tilt your head back and try to catch a few snowflakes on your tongue.


End file.
